Media City.
A ten-foot black-and-silver robot loomed in the narrow gap between three glass towers, its massive frame catching harsh reflections off shattered windows.
Its right fist hammered forward, metal knuckles punching clean through a storefront facade.
Glass exploded outward in a glittering cascade, shards spinning and tinkling across asphalt. A heavy kick followed, the robot’s plated leg swinging up in a slow, deliberate arc before slamming down. The storefront caved with a deep metallic crunch, concrete dust billowing thick into the street.
Twenty civilians scattered below.
A news helicopter hovered at a safe distance. Its camera lens locked tight on the chaos.
[Breaking: Class A villain bot active in Acansus City. Casualties reported. The villain behind the attack is currently unidentified.]
A twelve-year-old girl sprinted down the center of the street, ponytail whipping wildly, small sneakers pounding. The robot’s head rotated. Its massive leg rose, joints locking, pistons hissing, lining up the stomp directly above her.
The foot dropped like a falling building. It stopped dead.
Lady Vega caught the enormous metal foot bare-handed.
Black hair whipped loose around her golden mask, catching the sun in brilliant streaks. Her black silk top clung to her torso, small red cape snapping at her shoulders. Golden bracelets flashed on her wrists. The red mini skirt fluttered high against her thighs, black-and-gold boots planted wide, heels digging into cracked asphalt.
The crowd below erupted.
[Lady Vega is on the scene,] the news reporter shouted, voice cracking with excitement. [The most dangerous woman in the world just showed up.]
Lady Vega’s arms flexed, muscles standing sharp under smooth skin. She drove the robot’s leg upward in one powerful heave, metal groaning.
With her free hand she scooped the girl clear, spinning her safely behind her in a blur of motion. She was back in stance before the bot could rebalance, cape flaring.
She launched straight up. Air rushed past her. The robot’s massive fist swung. Lady Vega slipped it by inches, torso twisting, hair streaming, the golden mask flashing.
She coiled mid-air, hips snapping, then drove her fist forward in a full-extension punch toward the robot’s head.
Power rippled down her arm, skirt riding dangerously high on the motion.
"Cut!"
Everything froze.
The robot’s arm locked mid-swing. The girl stopped screaming. Lady Vega hung in the air for a split second before dropping lightly to the ground, boots clicking on the street. The panicked crowd straightened, brushing off dust, checking phones.
Behind the cameras, a full production crew buzzed, directors in IronClad vests, crew members adjusting lights, assistants with clipboards and earpieces darting between takes.
A man in his late thirties stepped forward, clearly in charge.
"We are shooting an underwear campaign," he said, gesturing sharply. "Before the punch, the skirt needed to come up. You missed the beat."
Lady Vega landed with a soft crunch of glass under her boots. She rolled her shoulders once, silk top shifting across her chest.
Behind the director, her agent Daniella stood watching. White shirt tucked neatly into tall gray pants that hugged her long, straight legs. Black hair pulled back sharp. A tablet rested under one arm.
Daniella caught Lady Vega’s eye, bent slightly at the waist, and gave her own butt a quick, playful pat.
Lady Vega’s stern expression cracked. A genuine smile broke across her lips, eyes sparkling behind the golden mask.
"Retake," the director called, already turning back to the crew, waving his clipboard. "From the stomp. Action."
***
Daniella and Lady Vega walked out of the studio side by side, almost the same height, their strides syncing into the easy, familiar rhythm they’d fallen into since high school hallways.
Stephanie’s black-and-gold boots clicked sharply against the polished concrete floor. Daniella’s gray heels answered in crisp counterpoint.
"I hate this set," Lady Vega said, voice low.
"Come on, Steph." Daniella smiled, one corner of her mouth lifting as she adjusted the tablet under her arm. "This works for us. Two birds, one stone. We get the hit for taking down a Class A bot and we move a Melvis thong at the same time."
"Girl, it’s a c-string." Stephanie kept her voice low, glancing sideways. "My entire ass is going to be in public."
"Melvis put fifteen million in your account." Daniella didn’t blink, her sharp jaw tilting. "For that kind of money you can show a part you’re supposed to be proud of. If I were you, I’d be asking how much extra the deluxe package pays."
They both laughed.
IronClad staff froze mid-motion as they passed.
Stephanie’s laugh trailed off into something quieter. "This isn’t how we started, though."
"No," Daniella said, her long legs eating up the floor. "But it’s where we are. And where we are is millionaires."
"Seriously?"
They pushed through the heavy glass doors together. The warm evening air of Media City hit them instantly, carrying distant traffic hum and the sharp scent of ozone from the tower’s rooftop generators.
IronClad’s massive tower rose behind them, black glass and steel stabbing into the sky.
"I still want to be the hero who worked with Titan Tech," Stephanie continued, voice dropping. "Back when none of it was staged. Everything’s edited now."
Daniella caught the shift immediately. She softened her tone to match. "You saw what happened to your pretty boy."
"Ah." Stephanie exhaled, shoulders dipping slightly. "I see where this is going."
"Flamebird, girl." Daniella couldn’t resist the edge in her voice. "Flamebird, dropped on camera by some absolute nobody."
"Ella. We both know I never liked him. Not even when the whole machine was pushing him down our throats."
"Heard he hired Priscilla?" Daniella said. "Not gonna lie, if she can’t pull it off, nobody can."
Stephanie clearly wasn’t interested. Daniella read it off her face instantly.
They reached the cars. Two sleek vehicles waited under the covered portico, Daniella’s black Rolls-Royce gleaming like oil, Stephanie’s BMW crouched low and silver.
"You need a man in your life," Daniella said, pulling Stephanie into a quick, firm hug. She kissed each cheek with a soft press of lips. "What are you doing tonight?"
"Anything except watching my own official presentation, which everyone seems to think is going out live." Stephanie opened the BMW door.
"You should use the golden gift I sent you." Daniella was already laughing as her driver held the Rolls-Royce door open for her.
Stephanie laughed too, sliding into the driver’s seat of the BMW. The leather creaked under her thighs. The door shut with a solid, expensive thunk.
Then the smile vanished like a switch had been flipped.
She reached up, peeled the golden mask off her face, and dropped it onto the passenger seat. Her black hair spilled free. With quick, practiced movements she stripped out of the costume.
She changed into plain clothes right there in the front seat: soft gray hoodie, black jeans, sneakers. A completely different woman now sat behind the wheel.
The Rolls-Royce purred to life and pulled smoothly away.
She waited a full minute, fingers drumming once on the steering wheel, watching the taillights disappear into traffic. Then she started her own engine. The BMW rolled off the IronClad lot, tires whispering over asphalt.
『I love my life. 』
『I hate my life. 』
The conflicting thoughts hit her in quick succession as she merged into the glowing river of Media City traffic.